


Favourite

by Rhys (rhyssj)



Category: NSYNC, O-Town, Popslash
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-03
Updated: 2001-12-03
Packaged: 2019-04-19 20:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14245212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhyssj/pseuds/Rhys
Summary: Yes, Trevor from O-Town.





	Favourite

You watch the show, though you often deny it. It's not really _that_ good, and you think Ashley Angel is a big drama queen, but you sympathise with them, in a bizarre way, and you are absurdly pleased when Lou gets his in a public forum. Also, they're your competition now, them and Backstreet, so you know who they are, of course you do. 

Lance hates them, but you think he watches the show, too. He grumbles whenever he sees them, trading snarls with Jacob when he gets too close, and you try not to laugh at Lance where he can see you, just behind his back, in the bathroom. You, Joey and Justin place bets on who would win in a fight, and it's two-to-one against Lance. You think the wily Mississippi albino could take the dread-locked Justin-wannabe any day. 

"Fucking thinks he's all that," Lance mutters, flaming in the way he sashays, and Jacob gives him this look, like, hey fucker, ‘All or Nothing' trounced ‘Pop' on the Billboard charts. You cough into your hand, and Lance glares. "Fucking fucker." 

"He's just a punk kid, Bass," you mumble, smacking him on the back of the head. 

"He's got a mouth on him," Lance says and stalks off, probably to get drunk, and you catch JC's eye, who nods and goes to watch him, always careful of what people see. It's bad enough that the hostility between Jacob and Lance is tangible, you don't need people thinking Lance has a problem, when he doesn't. He just hates O-Town. 

You bump into Dan with the cocksucking lips, and you smile at him, friendly. He stares back, like he can't believe it, and you wonder what he's been told. Quite frankly, you don't give a fuck about what O-Town does. They're Backstreet's problem, really, they're doing the same shit. Besides, you like the show. They fill your world with joy. 

You can never remember _that_ guy's name, the one with the triangular hair, because you get him mixed up with that dude from Chips, and in your narrow world view, there's only one Erik Estrada and it isn't the kid from O-Town. Plus, he's freaky looking. You sympathise with him and his deadbeat dad issues, though. 

The thing about these industry functions is they're really fucking boring, so you have nothing better to do than think about O-Town and your favourite episodes of Making the Band. You're kinda envious that they have two managers named Mike because that's confusing as fuck and you think it'd be fun to piss them off. You're kind of envious about a lot of things. You wish you'd been able to tell off Lou on national television. That would have rocked. 

At the bar, you find yourself standing next to Trevor, your personal favourite. You like the fact he's snarky, and doesn't take shit, and ridicules his band-mates. It's important to make fun of them, you think with a supportive nod, keeps them humble and laughing. 

"Boring, huh?" You ask, ordering a rye and ginger, and he stares at you then past you then back at you. "All the same, you know, so calm and schmoozy. Like, everyone's moving in slo-mo, and it's. _really_ fucking boring, actually." 

Trevor raises an eyebrow. "Are you talking to me?" 

"Uh, yeah," you say, and he smiles at you fakely. 

"Right," and walks away. Well fine, you think, see if I still like you come Friday. 

~~~ 

You are not always a man of your word. 

Trevor's still your favourite by the end of the week because the other four just grate on your nerves, and you watch the show because it's some sort of mental crack. You stay home to catch it first-run, and that's pathetic. At the half hour mark, Lance phones up to bitch about Jacob, and you accuse him of watching the show and its back-to-back episodes. 

"Fuck you, I am not," he says, and you can just picture him waving his limp wrist around, all haughty and uptight. He's such a predictable liar. It's what you like best about him. "He's just a prick, and I can't believe he said that about us! He called us out on national television. He's so arrogant." 

You grin into the phone. "Dude, you started it." 

"I just said the show was bad," Lance replies, always testy about the subject. 

"You watching it?" You ask coyly, and Lance snaps at you and hangs up. He watches, you know he does, and Jacob is probably his favourite and that's why he can't stand him. You glance back at the television. 

Fucking Ashley Angel is bitching about fame again, and you roll your eyes. 

~~~ 

The next time you see O-Town, you make a point of saying hi to Erik, who glares at you like you're trying to gnaw his leg off or something. You feel like pointing out it's Lance saying all that shit about them, and that Lance doesn't even mean it. He's just pissed off that he likes the show, but you merely shrug. Whatever. Erik's hair is still fucked up. 

"Can I get you a drink?" You ask Trevor when you see him, and he looks around, over his shoulder then back at you. You smile. "Hey, yeah, you. What were you drinking last time? Rum and Coke? I'll get you one of those. Don't move." 

When you come back, Trevor is nowhere to be found, and you end up drinking his, even though it tastes like ass. Dumbass O-Town, you think miserably, you're just trying to be nice. Howie didn't put up this much fight when you finally got into the Backstreet court. Of course, Kevin still hates you, and Nick thinks you're after something, but you're just a nice guy. 

It's a good thing Howie's your favourite, anyway. 

~~~ 

You get kind of sniffly when Erik reunites with his dad, and you call up Lance for company. He's home, of course, because he's watching Making the Band, but he claims he's doing laundry. You tell him he's the biggest liar you've ever met. 

"Admit it, you watch the show," you say, laughing as Lance curses on the other end of the phone, dropping stuff, and you don't listen to him when the commercials stop, except for his occasional diatribe against Jacob, which is too funny to ignore. "Lance, man, if you just let it go, the world would be such a happier place." 

"Fuck you, Chris. He's got such a mouth on him. My lord." 

Lance says something near the end that betrays the fact he's watching too, some comment about Jacob's ugly ass dreads and stupid pants, and you laugh at him too long and too hard. He hangs up on you in a snit, and you finish watching the show alone. 

You seriously can't wait for next week's episode. 

~~~ 

Orlando's not that big, and neither of you are on tour anymore, so you see Trevor at the video store, dressed in a big hat and sunglasses. You smack him on the back and say, "hey, man. Heard ABC canned you, but MTV picked you up. Congratulations." 

Trevor looks at you over the edge of his glasses. "Uh, thanks, I guess." 

"No problem." You peak over his shoulder, getting close, and he steps away, but you move with him. "Hey, great movie, man. I saw it last weekend. JC cried through the end, but he's the sensitive guy, you know. Have you seen this one?" 

But he's not looking at the video you've placed in his hand. He staring at you. "What is wrong with you?" 

"What? What do you mean?" You ask, "do I have something on my face?" You drag your palms over your cheeks even as he's walking away, and you watch him leave, two videos tucked under his arm, including the one you recommended to him. 

Oh yeah, you think, he'll breakdown, just give it time. 

~~~ 

You go with Justin to Britney's concert in Toronto, and O-Town's not bad, a bit tone deaf, not great dancers, but they play their own guitars and that's fucking awesome. Justin abandons you for his _girlfriend_ , and you walk around, letting yourself into Trevor's dressing room when you find it. 

"What the fuck?" He says when he sees you, "get out." 

You're watching television– he has a little one on the makeup table– and you stare at him blankly. "Guy," you say, "great show. That thing you guys do, with the guitars, that was awesome. The red pants kicked ass, too. You're good." 

Trevor wipes the sweat off his face with a towel and sits down at the table, scrubbing at his hair. You liked it when he had the cornrows but it looks all right as a fro, you guess, better than Justin. "Who let you into my room? Why are you here?" You raise an eyebrow, and Trevor throws up his arms in frustration. "What the fuck, man? You're creeping me out." 

"Dude, I seriously didn't want to watch Justin and Brit suck face for half an hour." 

Trevor smiles a bit at that, and you grin back. That's how it happens; you get under their skin, and you're so fucking annoying they can't help but like you. "You're fucked up, man," Trevor says, and he sounds almost fond. 

Oh yeah, you think, you're inside. 

~~~ 

The next party, he lets you get him a drink and doesn't run off. Ashley Angel saunters by, sparing dirty looks, and you leer at him, just to fuck with his head. Trevor laughs lowly, smirking, and instructs you on the best way to get under Ashley Angel's skin. 

Lance walks by and double-takes, but it's not Jacob, so he's polite and actually apologises. He really didn't mean to stir up shit, but he just says the stupidest stuff sometimes. Trevor accepts his apology and says no problem. "It's fun to fuck with Jacob's head." 

"Oh, I like you," Lance announces, and you hope this ends the love-hate thing he has with O-Town because you really do need a watching buddy, if only to make fun of Ashley Angel as thoroughly as he deserves. You really can't do it on your own. 

~~~ 

It goes on like this for awhile. You stalk Trevor, and he humours you, while the rest of O-Town gives you the collective evil eye when you infiltrate their life and steal Trevor away with beer and pizza. This, you decide, is the life. It's so much fun. You're just having a ball. 

"How old are you, dude?" You ask one night, and Trevor stares at you. "C'mon, valid question, man. This friend of a friend of a friend says you're, like, twenty-five, but fuck, I don't believe that. You're what, twenty-two? Something." 

"Something like that, yes," Trevor supplies, and this causes you to throw your arm over his shoulders and squeeze him tightly. So yes, you're a little drunk at this point, but this means he's _very_ legal, and you're not taking _that_ news lightly. "Is it that bad?" 

"Nah," you say, slurring a bit. "It's fine. Life is good. You have all your handsome young band-mates, and then you have you, all grown up and well, still pretty fucking handsome, you know," and you stop at that. "Uh. Not that, you know. Uh. Fuck. I'm going home." 

Trevor helps you to your feet, and when you're out the door, suddenly says he'll walk you there because, and this is the funniest thing ever in the world to you right now, you actually live pretty close to the O-Town Shack of Love. You skip ahead of him then puke in the bushes. 

"Oh, fuck," you groan, choking, and you realise you are a lot drunker than originally suspected. It's just your luck that you are now making a complete and total ass out of yourself in front of Trevor. "Fucking fuck. I think that was my pancreas." 

And you wake up the next morning, and Trevor's on your couch, watching ‘toons. You feel like crap, and you vaguely recall hitting on him, and god, you are so _gay_. You need to cut that shit out, but he doesn't say anything about it, and you annoy him into buying you breakfast. 

Trevor eats his eggs over-easy, just like you do. 

~~~ 

Making the Band goes into reruns, and Lance is distraught. You laugh long and hard at him then watch the whole run on tape together one fine Saturday afternoon. Lance brings beer, a two-four, and you're drunk by three, hooting and hollering. 

"I hate him," Lance says for the fifty-sixth time as Jacob makes a big scene, telling off the dude in charge of the schedule and demanding they get time off, "but the kid has balls. Fuck. Why didn't we do that? I'm so envious, Chris." 

"They learned from us, man," you mumble, slurring, and you have a good cry-fest without actually crying, waving your brew around while you and Lance sing We Are The Champions as loudly as you possibly can. Making the Band brings the people together, you decide, and announce it to Lance, who solemnly agrees. 

~~~ 

You ring the bell twenty-three times, and Ashley Angel answers. 

"What do you want?" He asks, in a not-so-nice way, with his hair all perfect and ultra-blond, and you hate him and dramatics again. You thought you were getting over that, but evidently not. You smile sweetly. 

"Is Trevor home? Can he come out to play?" 

Ashley Angel rolls his eyes at you but goes to get him, and you wait patiently, waving at the security guard who let you in because you're on Trevor's list. You're an important person in Trevor's life. You're single-handedly bringing the boybands together. You, simply put, are the king of the world. 

"Hey, man," Trevor says, "what's up?" 

You turn back. "Um, well. I'm bored, right? And you live so close, and all those fuckers in my group ditched me, and I was wondering if you'd want to come over for pizza and beer. Get away from these bozos, like," and you shout his name, " _Ashley Angel_!" 

Ashley stops watching you and walks away. 

"Sure, let me get my keys," Trevor says. He comes back a minute later, wearing a different shirt, and you walk in comfortable silence all the way to your house. When you let him in, you notice his exceptionally nice ass and know you're a fucker for thinking it. 

And, really, you don't especially care. 

~~~ 

You really don't think either of you are that drunk when he kisses you. You're going on about the joys of Sega Genesis, which was the fourth game system you bought after you got famous, and suddenly, this hot, dark, handsome guy is kissing you, on the mouth, with fucking _tongue_. Score, you think, score, score, _score_. 

"Wow, that was really. _gay_ ," Trevor says, pulling back and rubbing his lips dry with his fingers, and you want to suck on them so badly. Instead, you take a big mouthful of beer and stare at him. "Uh. You were saying about Sonic?" 

"You want my sexy body, don't you?" Which isn't what you meant to say, but it's what comes out of your big mouth. Trevor's eyes go wide, and you have probably just managed to burn all bridges between O-Town and Nsync forever. "Or whatever. Sonic is for girls." 

"Totally," Trevor agrees. "Totally." 

~~~ 

"Bass," you say as Lance changes tapes, wanting to watch the one where Ashley Angel and his annoyingly annoying girlfriend break up. You both take mutual joy in his melodramatic suffering. "I think I'm about to start a great love affair with Trevor." 

Lance spits out his beer. "No shit! Is he even legal?" 

You nod solemnly. You checked it out and he is indeed a ripe twenty-two. You add, "and like, he fucking kissed me, and maybe I was getting him drunk so we could make out, but he took the incentive. Then we talked about Sonic the Hedgehog for three hours." 

"Your sex life is always so weird compared to mine," Lance says, grinning, and you grin back. Lance is pretty vanilla, an in-out in-out sort of guy with a great love for head yet never gets any. Lance, you think, needs to hook with Jacob, who probably gives amazing blowjobs with that smart talking mouth of his. "So. You gonna get with him?" 

"He's hot," you point out, and Lance nods. "Maybe." 

Lance grins. "Tell me the details, okay?" 

~~~ 

You plot a way to get yourself into the O-Town Compound. When you realise you absolutely suck at the schematics of breaking and entering, you pay off the pizza guy and deliver the five large pizzas yourself. 

"Can we put a restraining order on you?" Ashley Angel asks when he opens the door, but you push your way in, ready to hold the pizzas for ransom. You kick off your shoes, and the Drama Queen is still flapping his fucking lips. "Why are you bugging us? What did we ever do to you? MTV is pissed they keep having to edit you out." 

"I'm not bugging you, I'm bugging Trevor," you say, looking around the place, hunting for your man, but he's nowhere to be found. "Hey, here's your pizza. I'll bring Trevor his, the one with the pineapple and the ham and the olives, right? The big freak." 

"You're the freak," Ashley Angel says, and it's only when you're upstairs when you realise that was supposed to be an insult. 

You're halfway down the hall when you run into Jacob, who's _so_ bisexual, _so_ into guys, that you can't even fathom that maybe he's not. You wonder, would Lance appreciate your selfless efforts to get him some ass? Probably not, _but_. 

"Hey, man, phone up Lance Bass and work out this shit between you, will you? Here's the number," and you give him Lance's business card, which he gave to you like you'd ever actually use it. "Make love, not war, okay?" 

"Stop stalking us," Jacob says but takes the card. 

"I'm not stalking you, I'm stalking Trevor," you call merrily as you make your way down the hall, trying to remember which room houses the O-Towner of your dreams. You've only seen every episode seven times now. You should know this, but you've never actually been upstairs before. Trevor never let you. 

"Whoa," you say, walking in on Erik jerking off, and you turn right around, laughing and apologising and yelling. "Lock the damn door, man! It's the first rule of boybanding! Don't you kids know anything? Amateurs, all of you!" 

Trevor sticks his head out of his room. "Chris?" 

"Pizza Man, please," you say and walk in, dropping you and the box on the bed, and he closes the door. Grinning, you open up the chow and start eating, and Trevor joins you, sitting on the ground by your feet. The silence between you is absolutely golden. 

~~~ 

Later, you ask him if he wants to go for a walk, and you escape through the window so the cameras don't follow. You start laughing a few blocks away, and he grins at you, _finally_ , in way that isn't tainted with mirth or suspicion. 

"What do you want to do?" You ask, hands tucked in your pockets, and you feel pathetic, like you're so obviously waiting for him to jump your bones. He's a smart guy. He went to college. Plus, he's already kissed you once. He should know about your yearning for his loins. Instead, he stares at his watch. 

"I don't know. What do you want to do?" 

"I have some ideas," you say, scuffing your feet over the ground, looking at your own dirty shoes. He clears his throat, and when you look up, he nods. You know this might very well be your lucky night, and he follows you home. 

You're so fucking excited, and you have to accept it. 

You really are pathetic. 

~~~ 

You have to admit one thing. For a blushing virgin to cock, he's surprisingly enthusiastic about sucking one. He's really awful, but his kisses are hot, and your fingers sink into his hair like they're meant to rest there. Also, you appreciate the fact he doesn't even try to swallow. Nothing weirds you out more than a sexual partner choking to death on your spunk. 

You lick all over his tight muscles, and you really like that his body is covered in wispy black hair, not a lot but enough to make it sexy. He's trying hard, and you are not going to freak him out, not this first time, so you let him fuck your thighs, sliding slick with lube down the cleft of your ass. He makes an absolute mess when he comes, and you just make it worse. 

You fall asleep on the couch with him, your soaked bed abandoned. 

~~~ 

"Uh," Trevor says the next morning, holding a pillow in front of his groin, and you walk around freely, limp dick swaying to and fro. He watches you with those dark eyes, and you kiss him on the lips. It's now your right to do that when you want. "What are we doing?" 

"I'm going to make us some breakfast. You, on the other hand, are regretting having sex with me last night, which I can't believe. I mean, I'm awesome, dude, and I know it's not me." You clasp his cheek with your hand. "Just calm the fuck down, all right?" 

Trevor nods and you send him off to take a shower while you look for a semi-clean pair of boxers in the laundry and slide them on. You make eggs, over-easy, and toast, and cut up fruit which is almost-rotten but still edible. Trevor hovers in the doorway. 

"Was it okay?" You ask, and he looks at you for a moment. You're not talking about the eggs, past, present or otherwise. He nods slowly, and you smile. "Come on, sit down, man. I cook a mean slice of toast. I can't promise anything else, though." 

"I don't get you," Trevor admits, sliding into a chair. "I don't know why you picked me." 

"You're my favourite, dude." You grin. "You always were."


End file.
